“And who escapes up almost unscalable cliffs by hanging on to the ram’s horns,” broke in Captain Ludington.
“Then you’ve read the legend,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth with awakening interest.
“I heard it a few years ago at Glacier,” explained the captain. “Young gentlemen,” he added wheeling toward Frank and Phil, “that’s the story I meant to tell you sometime—‘The Monarch of the Mountains.’ Now I give way to Mr. Skinner. Let’s hear the real story,” he suggested, looking toward the new arrival.
“By no means,” ordered Mr. Mackworth instantly. “Not, at least, until we reach our coffee. You have before you a saddle of roast mutton that I personally selected yesterday in Chicago. It demands your exclusive attention. I got it that you may be able to distinguish between the flavor of it and the haunch of young mountain sheep that Mr. Skinner is sure to provide for us in a few days.”
Frank was already smacking his lips in anticipation of that game dinner in camp. Already he could see Jake Green at work over the camp fire basting a roast of mountain sheep. By this time all were seated, Sam Skinner included.
“Sam,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth, “as a special and honored guest this evening, let me serve you a cut of this mutton. It’s English Southdown.”
“English or French,” replied Sam slowly and hesitatingly, “it don’t make no difference. You’ll have to excuse me, Colonel. Young mountain sheep is certainly eatable after a fellow’s been livin’ on salt pork—and little of that—for two or three weeks. But, to speak right out, I ain’t much for sheep if there’s anything else on hand and I see there’s a plenty.”
“Then you don’t care for sheep roasted over a camp fire way up among the pines where you’ve chased your game all day?” suggested Lord Pelton, while all laughed.
“Sure,” was Sam’s quick response. “That’s regular and proper. But I’m speakin’ o’ times when you can have your choice. Them goat steaks and bear ribs is all O. K. when you’re in camp. But give me my choice and I’ll say they ain’t nothin’ finer nor sweeter than a big, thick, round steak fried on a cook stove with plenty o’ milk gravy to come.”
“Jake,” ordered Mr. Mackworth at once and without a trace of a smile, “fry a porterhouse steak for Mr. Skinner and smother it with gravy.”